


Parkin and Cigarettes

by CaiaCaecilia



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaiaCaecilia/pseuds/CaiaCaecilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas in the trenches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parkin and Cigarettes

Title : Parkin and Cigarettes

Author: Caia Caecilia

Rating: Teen

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Feedback : Always appreciated.  
Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. 

Parkin and Cigarettes

Thomas hadn’t intended to like Reg Phipps, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Everyone liked Reg. He was a big, amiable farm lad from Yorkshire who always seemed to be smiling, who saw something good in everybody and wasn’t put off being your friend even when you were gruff, or cold, or even downright rude, which Thomas had frequently been at the beginning. Reg just paused for a moment and then would shrug your rudeness off with a smile and just keep on being nice to you, he was like an unstoppable, affable, force of nature.

Reg was in Thomas’ RAMC unit and he had a real way with the injured soldiers. Thomas had watched him calm even the most frightened, panicked boys who were horribly injured and in agony, with just the gentle touch of his hand to the side of their face and a few soft words of comfort spoken low and steady. Thomas had asked him about it once, asked him where he’d learnt it, and Reg had smiled and shrugged, saying,

“On the farm I suppose. The look they get in their eyes, wild and scared, like a calf, maybe hurt and separated from it’s mum, just need some contact and a quiet voice to calm ‘em down.”

“What do you say?” Thomas asked, intrigued despite himself.

“Oh, that don’t matter,” Reg replied, “Any nonsense will do. They don’t hear the words, not when they’re afraid like that. They just hear the tone of your voice, the calm, the steadiness of it.”

Reg had shared some of his mother’s Parkin cake with Thomas when it had arrived two weeks late for Christmas, wrapped in several layers of waxed paper and a little stale and mouldy at the edges. Thomas had taught Reg to smoke, and how to roll a perfect cigarette even when knee deep in filthy mud with rats running about and an entire artillery barrage going on all around you.

Thomas would kill for a cigarette now, or even some of that mouldy Parkin, as he was gasping for a smoke, and his stomach was rumbling so much it was a miracle the Germans couldn’t hear it from their positions across no man’s land. Unfortunately he had no cigarettes left, having given his last one to Reg a half hour before, and no food either. 

Reg moved under his hands and rolled his head from side to side moaning a little and Thomas moved his body closure to the other man’s, pressing himself along Reg’s side feeling the little trembles that ran through the other man’s body.

Six hours ago he’d gone crawling out into no man’s land with Reg and a stretcher looking for the wounded who’d been left behind after the last attack. It had been a perfect night for it, dark, moonless, and still. They’d just found their fifth soldier lying in the mud, turning him over and finding he had no face left, Thomas had been about to suggest to Reg that they turn back to their own lines when they heard the distinctive whizz-bang sound of a low-air burst shrapnel shell. Thomas dived for cover in the nearest shell hole, grabbing Reg by the scruff of his neck and dragging him down after him. Thomas had lain face down, panting, his heart hammering in his chest, arms covering his head expecting more explosions but none followed and everything was still and quiet again. Flopping over onto his back he’d nudged Reg with his foot and whispered,

“That’s it duty done, there’s no bugger left alive out here and we’ll be joining them if we stay here much longer, let’s get back to the trench.”

Reg hadn’t spoken at first but then he’d murmured almost too low for Thomas to hear,

“I think I’m hit Thomas…my stomach…I think I’m hit.”

Swallowing hard Thomas knelt up and had reached out and with shaking hands felt his way down Reg’s body, from his face downwards, not able to see properly in the dark, going by feel alone. He got to the other man’s stomach and felt Reg’s hands clasped over his gut. Thomas fingers becoming slick with Reg’s blood, feeling the steaming mess of Reg’s insides only being kept from spilling out of him by Reg’s own hands.

Training kicked in and tearing open his medical kit Thomas pulled out the largest field dressings he had and slapping them over Reg’s hands he said,

“Pull your hands away Reg, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

As the other man obeyed and Thomas scooped everything up and using the dressing pressed it back into the other man’s body. Reg groaned low. Trying not to make any noise and give their position away but in too much pain to be able to keep it all inside.

Thomas applied another dressing and another as he felt the one’s underneath become saturated with blood. He shushed Reg, needing him to be still and quiet but all the time whispering to him,

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…it’ll be alright Reg, I’ve got you, you’ll be alright.”

But Reg wasn’t going to be alright, Thomas had lied, he’d known it and so had Reg. 

He’d given Reg as much morphine as he’d dared over the next few hours and had held his last cigarette to the other man’s lips so he could smoke it. Now as Reg trembled with a combination of shock and blood loss Thomas did the only thing he could and pressed himself against his side trying to give him some of his body heat. Thomas took hold of one of Reg’s hands and squeezed tight, mouth against Reg’s ear he whispered nonsense about after the war, the farm Reg would be going home to, the hero’s welcome he’d get, the girls in the village who’d all want a roll in the hay with the local war hero. He told him about Downton, the great house, Mrs Patmore’s cakes and the wine he liberated from the cellar. 

When Reg squeezed his hand so tightly it hurt and begged,

“Don’t leave me Thomas, don’t let me die on my own…”

Thomas had reached up with his other hand and wiped the tears from Reg’s face, ignoring the one’s pouring down his own cheeks and had promised the dying man,

“I’m not going anywhere Reg…I’m staying right here with you…squeeze my hand…feel me, I’m here.”

It was members of their own unit who had come across them half an hour later. Reg’s sightless eyes staring up at the first streaks of dawn lighting up the sky and Thomas sat next to him staring into the distance, stained with the dead man’s blood and having to be pushed and pulled back to the English lines unresponsive.

Thomas had been given two days leave from the front and then had been sent back to the thick of it. He closed himself off from those around him and vowed to not let anyone close again, and he knew he had to find a way out of the madness and Hell of death before it was him who became part of the mud of France forever.


End file.
